


Divine Manipulation

by zuzeca



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Animated (2007)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Spark Sex, Tactile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 17:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zuzeca/pseuds/zuzeca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from the Autobots, Shockwave is forced to confront the repercussions of his actions. Old fic repost from LJ, written for a kinkmeme prompt which requested a Shockwave possessed of basic emotional range. Post series. Eventual Shockwave/Blurr</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Old kinkmeme/LJ repost of a fic written for a Shockwave/Blurr request of a rather different sort: a lengthy, post-finale fic with a Shockwave capable of basic emotional range. In short, it happened to be exactly the type of fic I wanted and had never found before, so I took a crack at it. Link to the original prompt is here. 
> 
> Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their respective copyright holders. I am making no profit from this work of fiction.
> 
> Content Advisory: Non-explicit robot sex, mostly tactile and sparkplay, some minor dub-con, character death and plot-facultative alien OCs.

Of all the strange things he’d seen in his life, Swindle had to admit, a Decepticon spy, plating dented and scraped as though he’d come headlong through a firefight, with the corpse of an eldritch horror slung across his shoulders, ranked fairly high on the list.

“I require transport to Devola.”

“You and everybody, my friend. I’ll tell you what I told the last guy. I may be a kind, tender-sparked sort of mech, but we’ve all got to make a living. I’m going to need some kind of compensation.”

Shockwave tugged the body off his back and dumped it on the table. Several tentacles flopped over the edges, still slick and shiny with fluid.

“What’s this?”

“Compensation.”

Swindle grimaced, “Yes, well your compensation is dripping on my floor. What exactly am I supposed to do with this?”

“Its body fluids are eighty-nine percent chlorine trifluoride by volume.”

“Really?” He reappraised the carcass, noting the holes burned into blue-green flesh, “Surprised it didn’t blow up on you. Looks like quite a bit’s leaked out though, to say nothing of how much it’ll take to extract…No, I think I’m going to need something else.”

The low hum of a charging weapon filled the room, pointed not at him, but at the volatile lump of flesh.

Swindle grinned and laughed, “Well, can’t argue with that.”

 

It took twenty solar cycles for his self-repair systems to rebuild his weapons. Soon enough to aid his escape.

Not soon enough to prevent Megatron’s execution.

The Autobots hadn’t been able to quite decide what to with him. Imprisonment was obvious; he was an enemy intelligence agent and guilty of treason, but his murder of a fellow agent hadn’t come to light.

_Agent Blurr: outstanding intelligence operative and respectable Autobot. A bit of a motormouth, but a keen eye for detail and a good nose for tracking. Specializes in speed-based attacks._ He’d memorized pertinent stats for every bot under his surveillance, but those clipped bytes of data didn’t give one a sense of the mech themselves. _Also friend and colleague to one Longarm Prime._ They hadn’t been close by any means, he’d taken great care not to nurture too intimate bonds, but Blurr was of an amiable sort, and they’d shared the occasional cube after work. The young bot had impressed him with his intellect. 

In fact it seemed the death itself hadn’t even been discovered. From the few bits of information he’d picked up, Blurr’s status was still listed as “Missing in Action”, and little if any effort had been made towards learning his fate.

It struck him as somewhat sad.

So he was left to languish in prison, his leader gone, fellow soldiers scattered or deactivated. The cell was solid, the bars too strong to be broken by brute force. But they didn’t count on the amount of finesse with which he could manipulate his own mass. What was a lockpick after all, but a bit of precisely shaped metal?

The guards had been complacent. Not to the point of idiocy, but they’d relied too much on the cell to keep him contained. Hadn’t banked on him being strong enough to overpower them.

The first guard went down under a blow from his fist and he leapt over the prone body in the direction of the second, claws locking about his throat and wrist as the mech tried to raise his weapon. The arm cannon crumpled beneath his fingers, building heat snuffing out before it could reach lethal levels. He pinned the guard beneath him and reached for the light blue chassis, meaning to rip it open, tear through the circuitry…

_Blue?_

He froze for an astrosecond, claws embedded beneath the seam of an armor plate. He stared down at the mech beneath him.

_Not blue. Green. Why—?_

A low, choked moan and clawing fingers against the plating of his arms silenced the thought and galvanized him into action. He swung his fist back and struck the guard across the side of the head. Optics flared and blinked out. He tossed the unconscious mech and his partner into the cell and made for the exit, pausing only momentarily to disable their communication relays.

_Deactivated mechs tend to stay silent longer._

_They were only following orders. There will be sufficient time before they online. It would be an unnecessary kill._

_Do you really believe that?_

He pushed down the vague sense of unease and ran. 

 

Devola was a bustling market-based planet, comprised of a single continental strip which spanned the poles. By request, Swindle dropped him in a mountainous region in the southern latitudes, a short distance away from one of the cities. The other mech didn’t question his desire to avoid the main ports, just gave him a grin and an ironic salute before sending his vessel skywards.

He watched the ship disappear into the distance before settling down against a rock and synchronizing his chronometer to the rotation of the planet; minimum of three megacycles before dark, plenty of time.

Engaging his core processor, he brought up his construction parameters. A brief string of commands expanded the breadth of his chassis and shifted it to a lower position on his body. His legs shortened, thickening as the excess mass was redistributed and a mask slipped up over his face, halting over his optic and locking into place. Visual feed split into a binocular orientation.

He left his antennae, many mechs had them, but he shortened them and removed the side prongs; few outside of espionage specialists possessed such elaborated structures. His claws remained, though he added an additional digit to each hand. Purple coloring retreated, leaving unpainted black and silver plating in its wake. 

He paused to consider his new body. Shorter and broader than his natural form, it was still larger than his Longarm persona, and different enough that it should pass even under close scrutiny. A new alt mode would complete the disguise, but there would be time for that later. Rising, he turned towards the lights of the city, just visible over the distant foothills.

It was time to initiate phase two of his escape.

 

The Devolan captain, a squat organic creature with wet, rust-red skin, looked up at him doubtfully, “Nadu? What you want with that place?”

“Got a mining job lined up. Forty stellar cycles of dust and sand in exchange for getting in on a rich ore deposit on the north shore. Portmaster said you make a stop there.”

“Sure, for refueling before making a final cross-galaxy jump, but what’s a Cybertronian want with a job way out there? Last I heard you bolt buckets were still tied up in some kinda rebellion.”

“Politics. Most of us haven’t got time or resources to waste in faction conflict.”

Several bulging eyes blinked in agreement, “Makes sense, I guess. Got payment on ya?”

He produced a fistful of local currency and deposited it into one long fingered hand. An orbital ridge lifted, which didn’t surprise him; most of the credits had been stamped ages ago, extracted from one of many small caches of resources he had tucked away on various worlds, like a sort of interplanetary glitch mouse. Call it a habit; you never knew when or where funds and weaponry would come in handy.

He arranged his new face into a sheepish smile, “It’s been a while since I’ve been out this way.”

“Not surprised. Money’s still good though. I’ll have the mate swap it out for digital at the reserve. Any baggage?”

“None,” he’d already subspaced the small amount of energon from his store.

“I’ll have to put you in the cargo bay, haven’t got cabin space for somebody your size.”

“That’s fine.”

“Can you refuel off the extra in the hold?”

“Yes.”

The captain tucked away the currency, “Then welcome aboard.”

 

A hot, dry breeze washed over him, throwing a coat of dust across his plating as he stepped from the hold of the ship. He bid the captain goodbye and headed off in the direction of the stockyards. They were not his ultimate destination, but leaving a bit of a false trail couldn’t hurt.

The sun had sunk to the horizon by the time he reached the yards on the edge of the city. He paused for a moment outside the tall fence and peered in. Several rows of large construction vehicles, equipped for digging and the same tan color as the sand beneath them, were lined up next to it. A mammalian organic was looping a large locking cable around the gates.

“If yer lookin’ for work, come back tomorrow,” the creature grunted, wrinkling its flat face. “We’re closed.”

“Thank you, but I’m not seeking employment.”

“Suit yerself.” The creature allowed the lock to clang down against the gates before turning and heading off in the direction of the main district.

Shockwave watched until the organic grew small in the distance, before leaning over the fence and activating his alt mode scanners.

 

“Mother, someone’s coming!”

“Obor said he’d be here after nightfall,” Uda said, scraping the salted scraps of the evening meal into a pile before scooping them into a bowl. “Go bring him in, little one.”

The hatchling shook his head vigorously and dug his tiny claws into the lintel of the door, forked tongue flicking out to taste the air, “Not Obor, someone else.”

Uda paused and lifted her head. Now that she listened carefully, the engine rumble didn’t sound like Obor’s old transport vehicle. It was deeper, smoother.

Putting aside the dinner remains for a moment, she wiped her claws on her apron and, moving to stand behind her son, peered out into the darkness. Twin lights were just visible in the distance, moving towards them over the dark sand and scrub, set higher than a typical four wheel transport.

“An excavator,” she murmured. Had Obor managed to have his repaired? But no, he’d left it behind, still parked in the old shed, and a glance in that direction revealed his transport was still absent. Something wasn’t right.

“Varan,” she said, “remain here.”

She stepped several paces out into the dark, moving just to the edge of the circle of light cast through the open door. She could feel the low vibrations passing through the ground as the excavator approached. It topped a shallow dune before rolling to a halt a short distance from the house. The engine noise dropped as the vehicle idled, though she’d never heard an excavator operate at levels which weren’t near deafening. The front lamps dimmed slightly.

She waited for a short time, wondering what it would do next, but it didn’t move again. Unease pricked her; it was almost like it was _waiting_ for her to do something.

“Someone there?” she called, switching over to Standard as she did so.

There was no answer. Cautious, she approached, squinting in the glare of the lamps and drew alongside the cabin. Craning her neck back, she stared up into the driver’s window.

It was empty.

Puzzled, she reached for the handle on the cabin door, but then the vehicle _shifted_ beneath her claws. She leapt away, dropping down on all fours as she backpedaled, her lashing tail raising a cloud of dust.

The excavator seemed to split, opening and expanding into a more vertical orientation. Limbs extended and components rearranged themselves into a bipedal form, an elongate boxy head rising from the thorax. Glowing red eyes fixed upon her. 

Tense, she pressed her belly against the still-warm sand, prepared to run, to lead this creature away from her nestling, “What do you want?”

The eyes flickered, “Employment.”

She couldn’t have heard it right, “What?”

“I am seeking employment.”

“Out here?” The idea that someone would come this far into the desert to look for work dumbfounded her more than the strange creature itself. “This is an outpost. Most of the year there isn’t anything here.”

“I have heard through various sources that there are large mineral deposits present not far away.”

“Well, sure, but the desert’s an inferno during the day, and some of the night. Temperatures are enough to kill anything too dumb to hide or escape.” Even with the mediating influence of their tiny oasis, she and her family spent most of day camped out in the underground portions of their home.

“I am resistant to temperatures which would induce breakdown of function in organics.”

Satisfied that the creature wouldn’t immediately attack, she pulled herself upright, bracing her weight with her tail as she brushed the dust from her apron, “But why come to me? We don’t own the deposits out here. If you’re looking to mine, why not just go and do so?”

“I require shelter and a place to refuel, as well as an intermediary to exchange the mineral cargo at market.”

“An intermediary?”

“You would of course be compensated with a percentage of my intake.”

“You misunderstand me; why do you need an intermediary?”

“My reasons are my own.”

That didn’t sound good, but the offer still made her hesitate. Since his excavator had broken down, Obor had been reduced to playing courier for various independent businesses just to get by, as they lacked the funds to repair it. Even when he’d been mining, the hours when he could operate were limited. Funds were tight, and the supplementary resources from the surrounding desert were thin, made thinner by an extended drought. She wasn’t sure they could last another season. This creature could work throughout the day. He could easily bring in triple what Obor used to.

Wary, she asked, “How much of a percentage?”

“How much do you require?”

“Fifty percent?” she tested, checking his response.

The glowing eyes didn’t even flicker, “Acceptable.”

Surprised at his acquiescence to the steep demand, she warmed slightly, “My mate has a transport vehicle. He can easily take the ore in to market.”

“Good.”

“There’s room in the shed if we move the old excavator outside, and a storage tank with extra fuel, though we’ll be able to purchase more later. Can you live on that?”

“It will be sufficient.”

“It’s settled then. What’s your name, stranger?”

“My designation is Sandblaster.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Blurr was aware of was pain.

The second was that he couldn’t move. He tried to shout, but his vocalizer didn’t seem to be working properly and only let out a deafening squeal of feedback. 

“Easy, kid,” a rough, scratchy voice said. A mech, probably a medic judging by his markings, leaned over him, “Give me a click and I’ll recalibrate your vocalizer, get you talking.”

Fingers delved into the internals of his throat, reestablishing connections with delicate precision. Current surged and suddenly he could talk again. 

“Sir there’s a Decepticon spy in your midst and I have reason to believe Longarm Prime is involved in a plot to assassinate Ultra Magnus that is I believe that Longarm Prime _is_ the Decepticon spy based upon his response to my report that I had unearthed the spy and was now capable of compromising his cover and I fear he may injure more mechs if he is left running free!”

The medic stared at him, “You know, I can also _disconnect_ those wires.”

“Please, sir, lives may be in danger!”

“Calm down, kid,” the medic replied, shaking his head. “They ferreted out old Shockwave cycles ago. You should be worrying about yourself. You took quite a beating.”

He paused for a moment to run a brief self-diagnostic. An exhaustive list of damages, most in the process of repair, flashed back at him along with a processor echo of darkness, fear and overwhelming pain, “I was damaged.”

“In a manner of speaking. Crushed and dumped into an incinerator is more accurate. Lucky an old strut got wedged in the chute before it went through its next cycle. Maintenance bot had to crawl down there and dislodge it. Tripped right over you.” The old medic shook his head, “Red Alert and I spent the next thirty solar cycles just getting you back to looking like a mech.”

“Thank you—?”

“Ratchet,” the mech grunted. “Or ‘Chief Medical Officer Ratchet’ as those blasted bureaucrats keep reminding me.”

“Well, thank you, sir. I would have most likely been permanently offlined without your assistance.”

“Don’t mention it, kid. It’s my job. Now, that aside, your diagnostics are looking pretty good, but how are you feeling?” Ratchet raised a hand, “And before you answer, the correct response is: ‘Like I nearly got turned into scrap metal’.”

“That would be a fairly accurate assessment, sir. Not meaning any disrespect towards your work of course, I would undoubtedly be in a great deal more pain otherwise and I don’t mean to complain—”

“All right, all right, I get the picture! And I’m not offended or any such slag. Truthfully I’d be worried if you were feeling fine. I’m a medic, not a blasted emissary of Primus, and you’re still a long way from done. We’ll get you on some pain management and to a place where you can get some recharge. Let your self-repair do some of the work for a while.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Ratchet made a noise of acknowledgement and strapped something onto his wrist. The next thing he heard was the low hum of a localized EM field and he slipped offline.

 

It took nearly a megacycle to find a sufficiently reflective surface in the Spartan recovery room. Limping, he propped himself up against a cabinet of supplies and just looked.

He could have run another self-scan to take stock of his physical components, but part of him wanted to see with his own optics.

The damage didn’t look bad at first, but that was deceptive. Much of his exoskeletal plating had been replaced and the new sheets stuck out, great expanses of unpainted silver among light blue and black. Ratchet had managed to repair the elaborate sensor array on his helm rather than removing it, for which he was grateful; delicate, custom components like that were not easy to replace, but repairs could only do so much. Fine silver welding seams riddled the high, swept back crest, as well as the rest of his remaining plating.

It felt odd, looking at the small remnants of his near-deactivation. Considering how close he’d come to joining the Well of All Sparks, it seemed they should be larger, more exaggerated. He shook off the thought. A diagnostic informed him his internals were intact and functional, including his speed matrix. Well, that was what really mattered. Now to test it.

The door slid open with a whoosh of air and he peered out into the hallway. It was long and to his surprise, completely empty. Perfect place for a brief test run; smooth floor and no doors to impede his movement.

_Gates slamming shut in his wake, blocking his desperate flight. ‘Must get out, must get out!’ Limbs braced and buckling against the implacable compression of the walls._

He sucked a shaky cycle of air through his vents. Perhaps outside would be better.

 

The open sky and unrestricted flow of air did much to soothe his spark. He hopped the winding ramp before the medical building and landed on the empty street below. His struts absorbed the shock of impact and he straightened, looking down the dark road ahead. Allowing his gyroscopic sensors a moment to equilibrate, he took off.

Wind shrieked past him as he allowed himself to run unrestricted, skating along the surface of the road. Pushing himself, he switched into a tight controlled turn, streaking down an alley and out into a main road.

The street was thick with Cybertronians, a veritable river of light and metal, but he didn’t let that stop him. He wove between them, slipping between the vehicles with practiced ease, brushing through gaps which would have trapped or crashed a slower bot. The swift flow washed away the anxiety of his spark and quieted his processor for the moment.

He was free.

Then his com-link beeped at him, grating and insistent. 

Ratchet.

It was only sensible; he’d run out without even a discharge order, though some part of him chafed at the implicit demand he return. He leapt the rising road and dropped onto another ramp, reversing his direction and allowing the momentum from his fall to be transferred into forward motion. In less than a cycle, he was back at the med-center.

The old medic was waiting for him, a frown on his face. Blurr skidded to a halt before him.

“Ah, I apologize Chief Medical Officer, I did not mean to leave without permission; I only felt it sensible to test out my physical capabilities prior to my release, to ensure there were no glitches.”

Ratchet sighed and rubbed a tired hand across his optics, “I’m not mad, kid, and I can’t say I really blame you for wanting out of here. Just let me do a final scan and we’ll see about getting you discharged.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Though we’re not going to be able to get you out before the next solar cycle. Can’t get a bot in here to repaint you before then.”

He paused and looked down at himself. The plates did look a bit strange, an asymmetrical pattern of blue, silver and black, but some part of him rejected the idea of covering over the scars with paint, “I think, that I must decline a new paint job. At least for now.” 

Ratchet glanced back at him, surprised, but then his face shifted to an expression of understanding, “Suit yourself, kid.”

His optics flicked up to the broken chevron on the medic’s helm.

_Regardless of their appearance, they are mine._

 

“No.”

Ratchet’s optics widened, “What the frag do you mean ‘No’? You’re being put on medical leave; it’s standard procedure for any recently repaired bot.”

“Forgive my insubordination, sir, but I would prefer to be placed back on active duty, as I am fully functional and I can only guess that there is an extensive backlog of missions seeing as how the Elite Guard is in the midst of recovery from a major crisis and we are generally shorthanded anyway—”

“Now hang on just a slagging moment, I never said anything about you going on missions.”

“You said yourself that I was ready to be discharged.” 

“To go back home, not to go trekking across the galaxy looking for ‘Cons!”

“I assure you, my physical components are one hundred percent operational.”

“It ain’t your superstructure I’m worried about.”

“My processor is also running smoothly.”

Ratchet let out a strangled, infuriated sound, “Listen you little fragger, you aren’t going anywhere until I sign you off for active duty and I’ll be slagged if I’m going to do that!”

“I believe there is an appeal system in place, which I am perfectly capable of utilizing.”

For a moment Ratchet seemed to swell with fury, but then he halted and appeared to consider. His optics narrowed and he gave Blurr an assessing look.

“You know what? Fine, I’ll sign you out. Pit, I’ll even write you a mission recommendation. Sound good?”

Surprised by the capitulation, he agreed hastily, in the interest of clearing out before the mech changed his mind, though a niggling tingle in the back of his processor warned against it, “Thank you, sir.”

“No problem.”

Two solar cycles later, when he received the wireless mission brief, he learned a valuable lesson:

 

_MISSION: Information retrieval concerning Decepticon activity in Star Sector Omicron._

_EXECUTION: Single operative is to travel via starhopper to the twenty three (23) inhabited planets, spending a minimum of one decacycle on the surface. Collect all available data concerning Decepticon activity and transmit via regular reports. If enemy agents are encountered, operative is to withdraw and not engage._

 

Star Sector Omicron; known among the more uncouth as ‘The Aft-End of the Galaxy, Where the Energon is Sour and Nothing Ever Happens’.

Never frag off a medic.


	3. Chapter 3

The bucket of Shockwave’s vehicle mode bit into the tough, packed sand, dragging a scoop of the mixture free of the hollow in the shadow of a rock formation. Swiveling, he deposited the soil a short distance away.

Ten solar cycles had passed since he’d come to this vast, empty place. He’d spent the majority of his time in widening the surface mine, begun by the tiny organics with which he cohabited, and since abandoned. The mineral ore was plentiful and easy to access, harvesting it was simple, mindless.

Scoop, swivel, deposit. 

The leaning shadows of the rocks and his chronometer told him he had approximately six megacycles before the mate of the organic he’d negotiated with, _Obor_ , would join him, gathering up the extracted ore and loading it into his transport before making the trip to market, just as he did each decacycle.

Scoop, swivel, deposit.

His first order of business when coming out here had been to mount the towering rocks and implant an antenna array upon the highest point. It was not very wide or powerful, but it was tuned to specific Decepticon frequencies, and would capture any messages relayed out into space. Any rumblings of resurrection from his faction.

Ten solar cycles. Nothing but silence and static.

Scoop, swivel, deposit.

It left him far too much time to think.

Stellar radiation beat down on his plating, somewhat reflected by the light color of his paint, but it still raised the temperature of his internals just beyond what was comfortable. Even the most excessive heat of this planet’s star was incapable of damaging him; the insulation of his superstructure was resistant to a margin of at least twenty units beyond the current, scorching warmth. Still, he found himself missing the cool of Cybertron. The constant, stifling heat produced a low grade irritation and restlessness in him.

Scoop, swivel, deposit.

Five megacycles and counting.

 

The nights were, by some cruel irony, quite a bit worse.

He’d fallen very quickly into a routine: after the mining was done for the day he’d come back to the outpost, settle inside the high shed with a jug of the gritty, noxious fuel produced by this planet and wait out the megacycles until sunrise. Sometimes he recharged, sometimes he didn’t. Mostly he considered his losses.

Megatron: deactivated. Without their guiding force, any remnants of Starscream notwithstanding, the Decepticons were no more. His culture dissolved and his planet denied to him.

_And now, after thousands of stellar cycles of struggle, you are back where you began. Grubbing in a scrap heap for what dregs of energon you can scrounge. The elaborate ruses, the loyalty, the killing._

_Pointless._

The desert was insidious. It heated his processor to a gentle boil, played tricks on him. Made him consider the possibilities, changes enacted by himself or others.

Made him dream.

Could he have remained as Longarm? Cast aside his loyalties to the cause and integrated fully into the fabric of Autobot society? Exchanged the uncertainties of guerilla warfare and a righteous cause for the security of sufficient energon? For friends and…lovers?

He pushed aside a flash of a pale blue chassis and smiling optics bright with excessive charge.

No, he knew better than that. Even if it was in him to shed those parts of himself _Not until now, when you are stripped of all else_ , Megatron did not tolerate betrayal. He would have been exposed, shelled and gutted and left for the Elite Guard. It was meaningless to consider such things.

_Pointless._

 

The dreams crept in, wriggling into his processor like scraplets, nipping and devouring. Sometimes they were just file replay, improperly stored memories which occasionally glitched and rose to the forefront of his processor during recharge. This though, he’d never experienced this; he’d know if he had.

He was trapped in a narrow space, dark and loud with the grind of machinery. His limbs were braced against the walls, pressing, confusing him for a moment until he realized the walls were pressing _back_.

He scrabbled, shoving and clawing as they closed in, slow and inexorable. His plating was crumpling, internals sparking as lines were severed and kinked. He cried out—

And onlined to the metal crossbeams of the shed. He sat up.

It was still dark, the nebulous grey-blue color before dawn. He pressed his claws against the curve of his chassis and felt the pulse and flare of his spark, tachycardic with anxiety.

_Agent Blurr._

The young mech hadn’t cried out when he was crushed. Hadn’t made a sound.

He shuddered.

It was the third time this decacycle he’d woken to this type of dream.

He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than the _other_ type. The type which left his frame heated beyond bearing and his spark swollen and uncomfortable.

He’d never interfaced with Blurr before; he’d always made sure the few he indulged with, purely for the sake of appearance, were disconnected from the military or at minimum the Elite Guard and administration. Never cracked open that blue chassis and watched the smaller bot squirm under the blunt fingers of Longarm’s hands.

A wave of revulsion threatened to swamp him. It was one thing for desire to fixate upon an unattainable object, even he could admit to indulging in the occasional fantasy concerning Megatron, but a _deactivated bot_? One whom he was responsible for deactivating?

_It is nothing. Just…misdirected guilt._

But why did it hold such sway over him? Guilt was illogical. Blurr had been on the brink of exposing his cover, it had been necessary to remove him from the equation.

_But necessary to deactivate him? You could have run a controlled EMP through the hall. It would have offlined him nicely._

_There wasn’t time._

_You could have halted the compressor and left him trapped._

_He might have…escaped. Besides what could I have done with him? Forced him into stasis and hid his body? Hoped that he remained undiscovered until it no longer mattered?_

The fact that he could determine no other way to have handled the situation did not bring him any comfort.

 

It had been ninety stellar cycles since he’d last interfaced with anyone, and his systems felt the lack keenly.

_Long limbs, all clean lines and well formed plates. Blue chassis half cracked and gleaming with sparklight. Bucking and writhing beneath him._

_“Longarm…”_

He surged online, vents cycling as his system strove dump the excess heat. His chassis felt tight.

He shuttered his optics, engine grumbling in displeasure. This was becoming ridiculous.

_Ridiculous or not, heat retention is not good for the internals, especially here._

Surrendering, he keyed the command to open his chassis. His swollen, expanded spark fairly leapt into his claws and his body seized with the shock of it. His free hand dug into the sand of the floor as he manipulated the ephemeral corona, pleasure welling and radiating through his neural network.

It didn’t take much; he’d already been very close.

When his overload came, it dispelled the excess heat, but didn’t soothe the restless flare of his spark.

 

Blurr adjusted the coordinates for landing and took a moment to observe the planet before him.

_Nadu: fifth planet in terms of distance from the system star. Surface primarily composed of liquid dihydrogen monoxide with high sodium concentrations and a large land mass located at the northern pole. Known to be inhabited by sentient life: semi-permanent society of trader-colonists and a native species, referred to as Waral in the indigenous language. Small variety of wildlife, most clustered on the continental edges, a few specially adapted to the harsh, dry interior._ He’d memorized the stats of every planet on his route before coming here, bouncing his way through star systems on this mission from the Pit. He’d found numerous flavors of organic muck, strange locals, and not a single Decepticon.

If he were a vengeful bot, he might have spent his ridiculous amount of free time plotting retribution on a certain medic.

The planet’s solar star was dropping below the horizon when his ship bumped down on a wide expanse of sand on the fringes of the main city. Dropping down out of the craft, he folded into his vehicle mode and set off in the direction of the city center.

Several cycles brought him to an active market, laid out along one of the main roads. It was filled with a variety of organic species, all shouting and bustling about. Shifting into his root mode, he lingered on the edge of the bazaar and observed.

Low, shocked sound from near one of his legs. He glanced down.

A short, stocky Waral male was peering up at him, head cocked to the side and heavy clawed hands propped on his legs.

“I apologize if I startled you,” Blurr said.

The organic jerked his head in the negative. “Not startled,” he replied, in heavily accented Standard. “Just surprised to see another of your kind here so soon.”

He was immediately on the alert, “Have you seen another like me nearby?”

A grey orbital ridge lifted, “You’re looking?”

“Ah yes, I am a census bot you see, our planet likes to keep close tabs upon all of our members, wherever in the galaxy they may be, purely for security reasons of course.”

The Waral frowned at him, “Census?”

“A type of informational acquisition which is used for—”

A clawed hand cut him off, “I know what a census is, but why are you looking out here?”

“We are required to check every planet within ten parsecs of our homeworld.” 

The Waral blew a puff of air through his nostrils, “I suppose I can take you to him. Been living with my family. Came for the mining.”

“I would be greatly appreciative.”

The organic grunted, “Need to get my transport and a few more supplies. We’ll head back then.”

He found himself checking his weapon, reassuring himself of its presence and accessibility, before he followed the small creature.

 

Shockwave idled in vehicle mode, lights positioned to illuminate the gnarled roots of a scraggly tree, while the female organic _Uda_ dug among them, claws sending up sprays of sand.

By tacit agreement they mostly kept out of each other’s way, but she’d requested transport to a nearby rock formation which doubled as a miniature oasis during the wet season. Something about a recent rainfall and organic nourishment. He’d been able to produce no excuse for not doing so or summon up annoyance at the request, so he’d consented. He rested, nearly in a light recharge, as she burrowed and scraped.

“Found one.”

His visual sensors flicked in her direction. She was standing upright again, claws overflowing with something large and slick. As she turned, he could see it was some kind of organic larvae, pale white and coated with a layer of slime which dripped onto the ground. It wriggled slightly.

“What is its purpose?”

She huffed in amusement, “You eat it.”

“Having never consumed living organic material, I cannot state definitively, but it appears revolting.”

She tucked the squirming grub into one of the large pockets of her apron. The slime immediately began to soak through, darkening the fabric “Varan loves them.”

“Ah, your progeny.”

“I take it you’re not a sire?”

“We are built, not born.”

“How very cold. So your kind doesn’t form close bonds? No family or friends?”

He hesitated at that. Decepticon culture was rather vociferous on the subject of loyalty, but reticent on things like friendship. Easier to go with the Autobot views, “We are capable of forming friendships. Some even take lovers.”

“Do you have anyone? Friends? Lovers?”

“No.”

She didn’t say anything and he shifted, uncomfortable. One of the two moons had moved across the sky as they talked, “It is growing late, perhaps we should return?” It came out more as a command than an inquiry, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s fine,” she said. Dusting herself off, she boosted her way into his cabin and settled in as they took off across the sand.

The return trip was quiet; he was feeling less disposed to humor the organic and she seemed to sense his irritation. But as they topped a dune a short distance from the encampment, she leaned forward and made a questioning sound.

“You said no friends, right?” 

Near the low dwelling, outlined against the deep blue sky, a narrow shape towered over the house. Wide, vertically swept back shoulder guards framed a tapered head. A high, curved crest arched up from the figure’s crown.

Ventilation arrested.

His spark stuttered, flared.

“Then who’s that?”

_A ghost._


	4. Chapter 4

Glowing blue optics fixed on him as they rolled to a stop, “Sandblaster, I presume?”

“Get out,” he said quietly, but Uda was already slipping from his cabin, dropping to the ground and scampering out of the way. He shifted to his root mode, rising up over the smaller bot.

Blurr shifted back slightly at the display, but held his ground, “Obor here informed me that you go by the designation Sandblaster, is that correct?”

“Yes,” he replied, booting his vocalizer back online.

“I see, well there’s just one problem with that, you see I’ve cross-referenced your designation with all available records and Cybertronian databanks, and have been unable to locate any documentation of a bot named Sandblaster ever being built on Cybertron, or for that matter even on any annexed planets such as Velocitron. So do you see how that might be a problem?”

By the Allspark, the little glitch was actually _here_.

“Is your vocalizer malfunctioning?”

“No,” he said finally, his processor having finally sorted through the jumbled mess of speech. “However, I would be very surprised if you had found one. Most of the records dating from before the Great War were damaged or destroyed.”

“Before the Great War?”

“Affirmative.”

It wasn’t even really a lie. His protoform records _had_ been destroyed when the storage server where they were located had been obliterated, millennia ago. Along with his home and everything else in the city. When Megatron had come recruiting a few solar cycles later, picking from the bots left starving and scraping among the wreckage, he’d leapt at the opportunity. 

The best cover stories tended to have those little shards of truth in them. Gave them an air of legitimacy.

Blurr considered for a moment, “I suppose there’s no way to verify that.”

“Not really.” 

“I noticed you don’t have a brand or faction symbol.”

“I’ve been Neutral for a long time.” Sometimes it felt like he’d been on this blasted planet for an eternity.

Sharp, suspicious optics regarded him “And have you heard of any Decepticon activity on or near this planet?”

“No.” Again, the absolute truth.

Blurr deflated slightly. “Honestly I am unsurprised. Nothing much ever seems to happen in this particular star sector,” he muttered, voice tinged with annoyance.

He had nothing to say to that and they both lapsed into silence, before Blurr shifted uneasily, unable to remain still for more than a moment, “Well, I suppose I should return to the city. I cannot apologize for performing my duty, but I regret disturbing you.” He made a gesture of farewell and turned to go.

He wasn’t sure what made him do it. Maybe it was shock; his overheated processor still unable to comprehend the real, solid presence of the other mech. Maybe it had been too long since he’d seen or spoken to another of his kind, “Wait.”

Blurr paused and glanced back at him, head tilted in inquiry.

“You’ve come a long way; why not refuel before you go?”

“Oh I couldn’t impose upon your hospitality, and while I appreciate the concern I assure you that I possess sufficient stores to refuel upon return to my ship and—”

“Please.”

There must have been something in his tone, since Blurr actually broke off his string of excuses and looked at him oddly. 

“I insist.”

The other mech blew a brief cycle through his vents, and then something seemed to soften, to relax infinitesimally, “Very well.”

“Thank you.” 

_What exactly are you doing?_

_I have no idea._

 

A megacycle later found them sitting sheltered beneath the roof of the shed, watching as the solar star rose above the horizon, streaking the sky with pink and yellow light. They each held a large, white container, comprised of a lightweight synthetic polymer and half-full of a thin, volatile hydrocarbon liquid. At least Blurr’s container was half-full, as he’d done little but fiddle with the jug since it was offered to him. Carefully polite, not-probing questions flew between them. 

“Do you work during the day?”

“Typically, yes. However, Obor is transporting the ore to market today. I will return to work tomorrow.”

“I see.”

He decided to risk a brief dig for information, “What is the…current status of Cybertron?”

“Peaceful, for now. ”

An answer which told him everything and nothing, “That is good.”

“There is a new bot who has put in a bid for Magnus; the position will be up for change soon.”

Surprised by the voluntary disclosure, he pressed a bit further “Who?”

“A young Prime, goes by the designation Optimus.”

The mech who had defeated Megatron. His spark twisted at the thought, “An Academy graduate?”

“He was expelled. But he defeated the leader of the Decepticon faction in combat, which has earned him not a few honors.”

“Undoubtedly. What do you know of him?”

Blurr shrugged, “I was only in contact with him and his team for a brief time. He is brave, with strong convictions.”

“I see.”

“But—”

He turned towards the other mech, “What?”

Blurr looked down at his container of fuel, expression troubled, “I have remained in contact with a member of his team: a scout. He has given me some insight into why Optimus chose to throw in his bid.”

Bumblebee. Some part of him twitched at the thought of his old not-friend, “And?”

“Optimus has never been hungry for power. According to his team member, it was the execution of the Decepticon leader which convinced him to run.”

Spark-shot, he wobbled slightly and had to brace himself against the sand floor, “Megatron?”

Blurr didn’t seem to notice his slip, “He claimed it was a decision made out of fear, and it went against everything the Autobots stand for. That in fighting the Decepticons, we’ve lost sight of _why_ we fought.”

Blurr turned toward him abruptly, “You were built before the faction split, correct?”

Uncomfortable under the keen gaze, he took a gulp of his fuel, “Yes, though I don’t remember much. I was protoformed shortly before the conflict began.”

“Optimus is of the opinion that regardless of allegiance, we are all Cybertronian, and that we need to remember that before we can begin to heal. Do you believe that?”

“I think I am hardly qualified to give an opinion.”

Blurr shook his head, “Fair enough, I am unsure what I think of the situation myself. Optimus however, has spoken rather vociferously on the changes he feels are required for Cybertron.”

“Changes?”

“Opening the floor to hear the grievances of the Decepticons, what’s left of them anyway. Amending the old laws concerning citizenship and faction-specific restrictions.” 

So the young mech was seeking to make his political voice known, just as Megatron had done ages before. Too little, too late. He wanted to laugh at the irony, “He sounds like he would make a good and just Magnus.”

“I think so.”

Suddenly desperate to change the subject, he indicated Blurr’s still-full container, “You haven’t touched your fuel.”

The other bot glanced down at the jug as though he’d forgotten he held it, “Oh, excuse me.” He tipped the container back, took a gulp, and paused. He swallowed slowly, “It tastes…”

“Like the inside of an old tire?”

Blurr made a half-coughing sound of amusement, “That would be an accurate description.”

He hid his smile in his own container. And somewhere in the wake of the void left by Blurr’s news, something loosened, and for a moment they laughed together.

 

The sun rose again. He went to work and Blurr returned to his ship, promising to return later in the day. 

The sky was white with heat and restless winds tossed sand about, requiring he stop to clear his vents of the irritating grains every megacycle or so, but his spark felt strangely light. He found himself quitting the mine as soon as the rock shadows had reached twice his height.

He was already propped against the wall of the shed, legs stretched out in front of him when his sensors detected the low hum of approaching engines and the glimmer of a Cybertronian energy signature.

Blurr crested the top of a dune and rode down the leeward side, skimming across the surface of the sand. He’d expected the speedster to be slowed or hindered by the sand, but the bot seemed hardly troubled by the twisting grains. He skidded to a halt by Shockwave’s side, raising a small wave of sand and dust.

“You have driven on sand before?”

Blurr gave him a smirk, “My first solo mission was to a desert planet, I learned rather quickly.”

Of course, he recalled Blurr telling the tale before, much more quickly and elaborately “Impressive.”

“Thank you. Before I forget” Blurr reached and unsubspaced something before extending his hand “for your hospitality.”

It was a small cube of energon, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand, but it glowed ultraviolet in the sun’s fading light, nearly white in color. High grade, and good quality, “That’s not necessary.”

“I insist, it would only be right, after all I imposed upon your hospitality and it is the least I can do to substitute for the fuel which you have offered me—”

Slightly exasperated, he held up a hand, “Will you at least concede to share it with me?”

Blurr frowned for a moment, but then appeared to consider “Will you show me the desert?”

Startled by the request, he glanced out into newly dark expanse, “There is not much to see, but of course.”

“Then I believe we can come to an accord.” Blurr made a brief dash out across the sand, turning back to look at him, “Are you coming?”

He shook his head, but subspaced the energon and followed.

 

He had forgotten the utter darkness of the desert at night.

They drove together, riding up and down the small dunes beneath the speckled sky, heading in a northeastern direction. He half expected to be left behind, but Blurr would only occasionally shoot out ahead of him, circling at speeds he could never hope to match, before returning.

He wasn’t sure if the other mech was looking for anything in particular, but when they topped a ridge and came down into a hollow and Blurr sprang up, unfolding from his alt mode, he took the cue and changed back as well. The bot plopped down in the sand and he seated himself beside him.

For a few clicks, they stared up at the sky.

“Still got the high grade?”

He produced the cube and offered it, but Blurr pushed it back, “You first, I insist.”

He obeyed and took a small sip. It never felt quite right consuming fuel through his mouth, but he forgot all about that when the energon hit him, crackling along his circuits and sending his vents through an involuntary cycle, “It is…very potent.”

“A colleague of mine knows a mech who works in production.” Blurr accepted the cube and took a small drink, optics flashing bright with charge for a moment as he shuddered.

Potent or not, his systems craved it. It was pure and filling in a way the unprocessed fuel of this planet was not. They traded sips, back and forth, until the cube was empty and he was warm and tingling from the excess charge.

Blurr hummed in contentment, engine purring as he stretched out on the sand, “I’ll have to remember to tell Ironhide to thank his friend again.”

“My compliments as well.”

They sat in a rare silence for a moment and Shockwave took the opportunity to savor the warmth in his circuits and the flicker of an energy field beside him. His spark curled and pulsed with satisfaction.

Blurr made a small sound and he glanced over at the other mech. Puzzled optics glowed up at him; Blurr had a hand pressed to his chassis, just above his spark.

Something between embarrassment and alarm blared through him. The high grade was clouding his processor and he hadn’t kept control of his energy field. Had reached right out and touched against Blurr’s field, something which wasn’t usually done unless seeking to initiate interface. No wonder Blurr looked confused, “I apologi—”

A hand on his own cut him off and he stared at the other bot.

For once Blurr didn’t say anything. Just reached out with his own energy field, warm and bright and flickering, and stroked against his spark. He shuddered in pleasure, but hesitated.

Fingers twined with his claws and Blurr vocalized, a primitive pitched sound in not-quite-language: an invitation, a plea.

He shivered and drew the other bot to him.


	5. Chapter 5

Ninety stellar cycles and now he had the small, blue mech against him, writhing as he sought out sensor clusters and delved beneath plating to tug gently on wires.

It felt unreal.

Blurr squirmed in his grasp and groped for him, trying to seek out sensors on his own frame. Though, between their difference in mass and the speedster’s inhibited coordination from the excess charge, he was not very successful. He boosted the mech up and reached down to stroke his legs, hunting for the clusters which provided Blurr with the sensory information for precision changes in velocity.

A static moan told him he’d found one and he took his time, teasing and warming it, their energy fields touching and twining. Blurr ventilated sharply and pressed against him.

Recalling a quirk of his own frame, he adjusted the mech against his chassis until he could reach the high crest on his helm. He reached for the delicate structure and froze.

Up close, lit by the red glow of his optics, the web of welding lines glared stark against the surface of the metal. He’d seen them before of course, but at such a short distance you could almost trace the folds, see how the structure had crumpled and broken…

_I made those._

His spark was suddenly cold.

Blurr wiggled and made an impatient noise, “Sandblaster?”

He couldn’t speak, his vocalizer was frozen.

“Sandblaster?”

His voice jumped and broke, all static, “Your crest…”

Blurr stiffened against him, “I was damaged rather badly a number of cycles ago. The medics fixed me up, but a sensor array like that isn’t easy to design and I need it for my work.”

He understood. His own antennae were almost irreplaceable. He started to speak, but Blurr was still talking, trying to push himself up, to get a foothold on Shockwave’s chassis.

“I apologize if you find it disconcerting and to be perfectly honest perhaps this wasn’t the best idea, after all we’re both a bit overcharged and I—”

“Don’t,” he said, arms tightening around the other bot, “I should apologize. Your frame is very lovely, don’t have any doubt about that.” He stroked a soothing hand down Blurr’s flank, processor racing to find an excuse “I only meant to ask if I might touch it. I don’t wish to harm you.”

A couple of agonizing clicks and Blurr relaxed against him, “Yes, it should be alright. It is sensitive, but I’ve not noticed any pain.”

He made a sound of acknowledgement and reached, tracing the structure with his claws. Blurr’s field was less warm and active than it had been a few clicks ago, but a surveillance sensor array was still a surveillance sensor array and even a gentle stroke made him jerk and moan.

Blunt fingers scrabbled against his chassis, “I should…”

“It’s alright, please let me.”

A few more strokes to his helm and Blurr gasped, his chestplate splitting. Sparklight spilled out into the desert night.

Something in his own spark twisted at the sight of the blue-white glow, pulsing and gleaming and _alive_. It felt like lust, consuming and powerful, but it ached and warmed in a way that lust never had. He was fixated, couldn’t turn his optics away.

“Beautiful…”

His claws looked wickedly sharp, silhouetted against the backlight, but Blurr gasped and pressed his spark into his hand. Electricity crackled across his palm.

The smaller bot was trembling, very close but not quite there. He curled his claws around the spark and squeezed gently, not enough to harm, but enough to let Blurr feel the pressure.

Blurr twitched and cried out, charge crackling across his frame as his optics flared bright in overload. He continued to stroke the spark until Blurr’s optics winked out and he slumped over, offline, before withdrawing and allowing his chestplate to reclose.

For a moment he expected frustration. He hadn’t overloaded after all, but there was only the lingering warmth of the high grade and a consuming sense of satisfaction.

He gathered the offline bot up and set out in the direction of his shelter.

 

Blurr onlined to the pleasant after-buzz of high grade and the awareness that he was alone.

Engaging his scanners, he discerned his location. Tucked in the far corner of Sandblaster’s shed, atop a pile of tarps. Beyond the open entrance, the sun was beating down on the sand, already alive with heat.

He rose on shaky legs and looked around the shed. Almost nothing present to indicate that a mech lived here. Besides the pile of tarps, a few metal fuel drums and the transporter belonging to the organic family group, the shed was empty.

He stepped towards the entrance and paused.

Scratched into the sand floor was a short message:

_Feel free to help yourself to the fuel. I will return later. Sandblaster._

He couldn’t help smiling. At least there appeared to be no hard feelings, considering he’d offlined the night before without even ensuring Sandblaster had achieved overload. It was something of dent in his ego that had occurred. He had generally been praised for his interface ability, but it had been some time since he’d had an encounter. And Sandblaster…

He shuddered, vents cycling.

Gathering himself together, he stepped from the shed out into the sunlight. Staring out across the desert, he contemplated his next move. It hadn’t even been a full decacycle since he’d come to this planet, and his mission parameters hadn’t given him a _maximum_ time which could be spent on the surface. Perhaps he could remain for a time.

A low, hissing noise drew his attention to the organic dwelling. The female Waral hovered in the door of the house, hiding from the sun as she gestured to him to come close.

He knelt by the entrance, “May I be of assistance?”

She jerked her head in assent, “You see those white jugs lined up in the shed?”

“Of course.”

“When the shadows get to be about your height, fill one up and take it out to your friend.” She rattled off a set of coordinates, “He should be finished by then.”

“But generally Sandblaster will just return before refueling, so I fail to see why I should go out to meet him when he will just—”

She made a low, huffing sound of amusement, “Not for convenience. To give you two some time together.”

“Some time together?” He was startled she had even guessed; most organics didn’t consider the possibility of intimacy between purely robotic beings.

She laughed, “When two _gml_ go gallivanting off into the desert, only one reason.”

A quick cross-reference informed him that _gml_ were a type of local desert animal well known for their prodigious interface drives.

Slightly affronted, he began “I don’t think that’s really,” but she waved him off. 

“Just a suggestion,” the Waral disappeared into the depths of the house, chuckling.

He frowned at the line of jugs in the shed. Ridiculous.

As the shadows began to grow longer, he found himself filling a container. Perhaps he could call it an apology.

 

The coordinates provided by the Waral turned out to lead to a large rock formation, southwest of the small encampment. He engaged his scanners as he drew closer, sweeping out to pinpoint Sandblaster’s location…

A high, odd _ping_ grated across his circuits and he halted in surprise.

What was that?

He frowned, probing. It seemed to be coming from the top of the rocks, and it almost felt like…

A call of greeting drew his attention back to ground. Sandblaster was shifting out of his alt mode, shaking off the reddish dust of the ore as he came to meet him.

Blurr held up the jug as the other mech approached, “The female organic told me to bring this to you.”

Sandblaster frowned at it, “Uda? That’s rather odd. You didn’t need to do that.”

Contrite at the implied inconvenience he hastened to reassure the other bot, “Of course that’s not the only reason and it’s really no inconvenience at all to bring you fuel, in fact it’s probably the least I could do to make up for the embarrassment of last night—”

“Wait a moment, last night?”

“I er, did not ensure you were properly taken care of.”

Sandblaster looked amused, “Don’t worry about that. I asked you to allow me to take care of you.”

Suddenly embarrassed, he turned his head away, but his mouth kept right on talking, “Nevertheless I’m not usually quite so, ineffectual, but it has been some time and you were very—” He broke off when he realized Sandblaster had come closer, bending down until they were more or less face-to-face.

“Go on?”

“Very… proficient.”

“Proficient. Very flattering of you to say so.”

Sandblaster’s energy field flared out to touch his, just barely teasing. His tone dripped with amusement.

“Perhaps I could demonstrate my…proficiency again.” 

He only had a moment to gasp before he was swept up against a large chassis. He unbalanced, gyros wheeling for a moment, and almost dropped the jug.

“Careful!” He tried to shout a warning, but Sandblaster was already scooping him up, bearing him off in the direction of the rocks.

 

He was going to show the large mech that he was more than capable of giving as well as he got. Just as soon as he could get those claws out of— _Oh, Primus_ —his leg cabling.

“Wait,” he gasped.

Sandblaster made a sound of inquiry and _twisted_ his hand. Blurr’s optics buzzed with static. Gathering the shattered bits of his processer, he shoved back against the other mech’s chassis.

“Please, allow me.”

Sandblaster eyed him for a moment, but then relaxed back, hands sinking to his sides. He suppressed a flash of disappointment at the loss of stimulation and adjusted himself atop the other mech. Reaching for what gaps in plating he could access, he delved inside, small fingers finding and stroking along wiring.

Sandblaster hummed in pleasure, but he didn’t seem as revved as Blurr had been only a few clicks ago. Processor racing, Blurr considered the mech before him. He wasn’t terribly familiar with construction frame types. Glancing up towards Sandblaster’s helm, he zeroed in on the two stubby antennae. They wouldn’t be as sensitive as on a bot which specialized in surveillance, but they should do.

He reached up swiftly, wrapped a hand around the left one, and squeezed.

Sandblaster fairly _convulsed_ beneath him, nearly throwing him off. Shocked but delighted, he stroked down the structure, gentling his touch a shade.

The other mech moaned, low and full of static; he must have shorted out his vocalizer. Using his free hand, he stroked Sandblaster’s chassis, encouraging it to open. It seemed to take an inordinate time, but then the great plates parted and he plunged his hand into sparklight.

Sandblaster’s energy field exploded outwards, wrapping around him, and electrical feedback squealed across his processor, whiting out his vision.

He onlined a handful of clicks later, draped across Sandblaster’s now-closed chestplates, aware he must have overloaded somewhere in that blast of electricity.

“Let me amend my previous statement to ‘extremely proficient’.”

Sandblaster pulled him close and chuckled. 

But even as he nestled against the other mech’s chassis and prepared to recharge, a nagging sense of something not-quite-right tugged at his circuits.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, things get a little more dub-con-ish in this chapter.

They were small things, barely circumstantial at best, but they were beginning to bother him.

As wonderful a lover as Sandblaster was, there were bytes of information about him which just didn’t add up.

First: his ability and knowledge about mining seemed to be somewhat lacking for a bot onlined as a builder.

Second: his peculiar antennae. For the stubby vestigial structures that they appeared to be, they were far more sensitive than was practical for a construction frame type, and while their responsiveness was particularly delightful for exploiting in interface, their presence was a mystery.

The optic color was odd, but ultimately meant nothing. Before the Great War mechs had been onlined with a variety of colors, but still…

One of his instructors, an old mech who went by the designation Highbrow, had once given him a valuable piece of advice: _Trust your processor subroutines, most of the time they’ll turn out to be right_

He would have to watch and see.

 

For the first time in cycles, Shockwave found himself content.

He’d wondered at first whether Blurr would depart after their brief tryst, but more than a decacycle had passed and the other mech had made no mention of leaving. He even began to integrate himself into Shockwave’s daily routine; he’d wander during the heat of the morning and afternoon before bringing him fuel at the end of the day. Blurr even took to recharging beside him in the shed some nights, and the gentle hum of other Cybertronian systems went a long way towards soothing his spark. Despite the pressure of the deception he felt calm, grounded. After all, he’d kept up the charade of Longarm for far longer, how could this be more difficult?

He even allowed himself to relax a bit.

He should have known that was a mistake.

 

They were propped against the base of the rocks, sharing a container of fuel, when Blurr shook his head as if trying dislodge something from his crest, “There it is _again_ , blast it.”

“Something wrong with your sensor array?”

Blurr frowned, “Possibly. I have been repeatedly detecting an informational ping of some kind, of course it might be a sensor echo, but truthfully it seems more comparable to a com-link array.”

A frisson of alarm went through him, “A com-link array?”

“Based upon my samples, I suspect that is what it is.”

“I haven’t detected anything.”

But Blurr was already rising to his feet, waving him back, “I’m not entirely surprised; I am designed specifically to be able to detect such equipment. Do not worry about it, stay here and I will investigate.”

“Wait,” he started to say, but Blurr made a jump onto one of the lower rock formations and began scanning the top and sides. He scrambled up after the other bot, processor frantically whirling for an excuse or distraction.

He topped the rock formation just as Blurr discovered the antenna array and was bending down to investigate. It wasn’t immediately recognizable as Decepticon-made, thank the Allspark, but it was clearly Cybertronian and it would be necessary to explain its presence, “That’s mine.”

Blurr glanced up at him in surprise, “Yours? What is its purpose?”

“It is…good to know the status of one’s own kind now and then. Even if you are not or cannot be present.”

“But why not mention it?”

“I had forgotten,” the complete truth, he _had_ forgotten, or he would have disabled the glitched piece of machinery as soon as he’d known Blurr was there.

Blurr seemed doubtful, but he eventually conceded the point, “I can accept that it might be…lonely out here.”

He went almost weak with relief and stepped forward, reaching for Blurr, when the array crackled to life.

Twenty solar cycles of silence and then, at the worst possible moment, the com came alive and the voice of one of his brethren poured through.

“Is this slagging piece of equipment even working? I swear by the Allspark if Swindle ripped me off I’m going to—run off to Nebulos and form an Insecticon conga line!”

Bliztwing.

 

He’d learned a few things since his last encounter with Blurr.

He didn’t wait for Bliztwing to finish his little spiel, just grabbed for the other mech, latching onto his arms and lifting him bodily from the ground before Blurr could even engage his speed matrix.

Blurr exploded in motion, thrashing against him, but he clung on. Out of the corner of one optic he saw a glowing flash and the blade of some kind of weapon bit into the plating of his armor.

Blurr, it seemed, had learned a few things as well.

“Please, remain calm!” he shouted over the growl of Blurr’s engine, “I don’t wish to hurt—”

“Identify yourself!” Blurr spat. “Identify yourself, Decepticon!”

Struggling to maintain a grip on the wriggling mech, he tried for diversion. Let his voice slip back into the smooth, light tone of Longarm, “Blurr.”

Blurr went rigid against him. Utter stillness for a click, and then the mech began to shake, “Let me go.”

“Blurr—”

“Let go!”

“Promise you’ll not run until you’ve given me a chance to explain.”

“I will do no such thing!” 

“Blurr, I don’t wish to harm you, but you need to listen to me.”

“It’s a bit slagging late for that!”

He gripped the bot against his chassis, “Blurr, please.”

The mech slowly went limp, but baleful optics stared up at him, “Was it a slagging joke to you? Or a diversion? ‘Face the Autobot agent so he won’t notice the Decepticon scum right under him?”

Something painful twisted in his spark, “No, that was not my intention. I _had_ no intentions of trying to interface with you.”

“You tried to kill me.”

He couldn’t deny it. He’d slagging near succeeded at it too. They’d both had their orders “I…cannot apologize for performing my duty, but I regret harming you.”

Blurr paused, obviously recalling his own words.

“The Decepticons—”

“Are gone. Gone with Megatron. Gone with Starscream. There will never be another Decepticon army.”

“You are planning something.”

“I am not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It is true.”

“You specialize in lying. Even this,” Blurr jerked his head at his form, “is a lie.”

“True, but also a disguise. For protection. Your presence here is proof enough that it was required.”

Blurr’s mouth tightened in anger, but he conceded the point, “That still doesn’t mean I can believe anything you say about not harming me.”

“I have no reason to hurt you.”

“I could expose you, as I did before.”

“Will you?”

“Let me go, and I’ll consider not doing so.”

“I can’t take that chance. I cannot fight off the whole of the Autobot army to protect myself.”

“Then I cannot believe you.”

“How can I prove that I am truthful?”

“You can’t. Every part of you is a lie.”

Not entirely true, there was one part of a mech that was beyond lies or faction divisions. It was a risk, but sometimes a risk could pay off. “My spark is not. Sandblaster, Longarm or Shockwave, it has always been the same.”

Blurr jerked his head up at the sheer shock of the implied invitation, “You would—”

“If it is the only thing which will convince you, then yes.”

For a long time Blurr remained still and silent, but at last he spoke, “Very well. I accept. We will see how truthful the spark of a Decepticon is.”

 

Part of him still expected Blurr to run when he placed him on the ground, but the bot only straightened, dusting off a bit of grime from his plating, “Well?”

“Here?” he’d at least expected to climb down from the rocks first.

“Yes, here. Before you come up with some scheme to wriggle out of this.”

Lowering himself to the ground, he started to initiate the command to open his chest, but Blurr spoke again, “Wait.”

“What?”

“Change back.”

To whom, he wondered. Who did Blurr wish to see? “Longarm?”

“To yourself.”

A few brief commands reverted him to his protoformed structure, “Like this?”

Blurr regarded him for a moment, “Lie back.”

He hesitated, but obeyed.

For a moment the other bot was silent and he stared up at the darkening gradient of the sky. Then a scrape of tire and metal on rock and Blurr was mounting him, climbing to straddle his abdomen, situating himself in order to access his chassis, “Open.”

He had to override a couple of codes to comply; his unconscious subroutines were responding to his apprehension and trying to hold his sparkchamber shut.

Blurr watched the pulse and flare of his spark for a click or two before parting his own chestplate. Sparklight welled up between them, blue-white and blinding; in this at least, they were the same.

And then he gripped Shockwave’s chest and pulled them together.

He realized then why the other bot had agreed to this.

The first thing he was aware of was pain. This was less a merging than a penetration. Blurr’s spark _drilled_ into his, flooding his processor with images, sounds, sensations.

_Overwhelming pain and helplessness as he was crushed, armor crumpling as though it were nothing. Darkness, unable to move, hear, only sense of external stimuli a few still-functional mechanoreceptors. Tumbling end over end. Pain and terror and betrayal._

Blurr shoved the memories into his spark, branding him as surely as Megatron had branded him. Fear and agony swamped him, filling his spark, overflowing with sensory data and his processor shrieked in protest… 

Blind and barely aware of his physical form, he dug his claws into the rock below them and took it. He wasn’t sure if Blurr expected him to fight back or not, but regardless he took it. Accepted it and pulled the memories in, along with the bot they were attached to. Opened and let Blurr see.

_Cybertron, eons ago. Faction conflict an immediate reality._

_Destruction. Loss._

_Endless cycles of existence, a kind of living death._

_Descending from the sky, a silver god, promising what should have been freely given._

_Megatron._

_Fierce pride of a just cause._

_Energon on his claws. Autobot intelligence agent, a necessary kill._

_Designation: Highbrow._

A shriek of horrified recognition grated across their merged processors as Blurr tried to recoil from the memory. He gripped the other and hung on, forcing the sharing as Blurr had done. More recent memories bubbled to the surface.

_Running, hiding, desperation._

_Dull, melancholy sorrow: the death of a nation._

_Loneliness. Wandering without direction, meaningless._

_Empty desert, spark-deep ache of knowing you could never go home._

_Heat and sand and madness._

_Dreams._

_Ghosts._

_Shock and strange joy. A miracle. Warmth and comfort of another spark._

_Sensation for which there is no name. Sharp, raw and tender, but hot and satisfying._

Blurr withdrew slightly and the pain eased, their sparks settling into an enmeshed configuration, flow of data slowing to a trickle. He rested, just feeling the current between them, before reaching out, probing.

Blurr flinched at the query, but he kept the touch gentle, inquiring. He wanted to know.

Blurr finally relented and he slid down into the wash of recent memories. Memories of himself, of Blurr’s mission. Felt the frustration at being pushed aside, as though he _had_ been deactivated. The surprised pleasure at his own desirability, first offer he’d had since _before_ , and the sense of resurrection, of reawakening in intimacy. And further, wrapped within a coat of _fearpainbetrayal_ , a small, kindling affection for his stranger-lover.

A lover who did not exist.

He drew in the grief and did his best to feed back some of the warm feeling.

_Masked, yes, but not vanished_

He wanted to say more, to show Blurr the layers of himself, the parts of Longarm, of Sandblaster, but their systems had already reached the vital threshold. Failsafe engaged, discharging energy before it could harm delicate circuitry, and overload struck, involuntary and uncontrollable, more of a convulsion than a true climax. Sparks detached and locked back into their chambers. Blurr sagged above him, bracing himself on the expanse of Shockwave’s chassis. Vents cycled and whirred.

“Did you learn what you wished to know?”

Blurr was quiet for a moment, staring down at his own fingers, splayed across the Decepticon brand, “I learned a number of things.”

A clank and Blurr began to remove himself from his perch. He propped himself up and watched the other bot. Would this be enough to convince the mech to let him go? And if not, was there something which would?

He wondered briefly if a threat against the organic family he resided with would buy Blurr’s silence. Autobots were notoriously soft-sparked when it came to other sentient life. 

At last the mech spoke, “I believe I need to depart for now.”

“Will you—”

“Keep quiet?” Blurr turned toward the horizon, just beginning to lighten to a pale purple, “For now, I will say nothing.”

He didn’t insult the mech by asking if he could believe him, demanding he define “for now” but the question was there regardless, felt but unspoken. They were spies, lying was what they did.

“You have my word.”

He chose to accept it.

And then Blurr was leaping from the rock, wheels engaging. He landed in a spray of sand, shooting out across the desert, and for a moment Shockwave could see the mech who’d performed the impossible, who’d crossed the galaxy under only his own power, without ships or wings.

He laid back on the bare rock and watched the lightening sky.


	7. Chapter 7

Three solar cycles passed and Blurr had not returned.

He made it back to encampment at dawn, the sands lit yellow but not yet scorching. Uda was at the task of hauling water, large jug dangling awkwardly between her short legs as she wrestled it back to the compound. She paused in her work as he trudged up, resting the jug on the ground. She peered up at him and produced the low rasping noise which indicated amusement.

“Ah, to be young again. And also a robot. I suppose you don’t have to worry about chafing?”

He didn’t comment on the absurdity of an organic which could measure its lifespan in a handful of stellar cycles referring to him as ‘young’, but he followed her gaze and realized the reason for her comment. His chassis had retained a few pale blue streaks during the change. Cross-reference of her statement informed him she was making a joke regarding his sexual organs. 

“We do not possess anything recognizable as organic genitalia. So I believe that ‘chafing’ is not an issue.”

She snorted and hauled the jug up again, “Whatever you say. You have a fight with your little lover or something?”

“That would be none of your concern.”

She shrugged, “Point taken. But in the interest of making some not-my-concern information freely available, I will say this: Obor and I have been stockpiling our portion of your intake for a good while now. By my reckoning, we’ve got more than enough to get his old excavator repaired. And even accounting for fuel, I’d imagine you’ve got a goodly amount of credits stored up. Just something to think about.”

He watched her drag the container down into their little home before returning to the shed to wait.

Regardless of Blurr’s decision, he had a great deal to consider.

 

He hadn’t been away for much time, but the inside of his ship still felt strange. Confining in a way it hadn’t seemed before.

He refueled and was pacing the interior, restless, before a light on the console caught his eye. Transmission. Someone was trying to contact him.

He slipped into the seat and engaged the connection. Static washed across the screen and resolved itself into a familiar face.

“Hey there, Zippy! How’s that side of the galaxy treating you?”

A slight involuntary twitch of irritation, “Bumblebee, how many times have I requested that you not refer to me as ‘Zippy’?”

The other mech grinned at him “If I knew that, I’d probably remember not to do it. Anyhow, how’s the mission been? Bagged any ‘Cons yet?”

“Putting aside the fact that I am not permitted to discuss mission details prior to my return to Cybertron and subsequent debriefing, you know very well how this particular mission is going, considering I was given it under the advisement of your glitched friend.”

“Who, Ratchet? Nah, he’s not really a bag guy. Probably just thought you needed a vacation.”

“Marvelous.”

“So do they serve energon with iron filings where you are? Or with the little oxidized crystals?”

“Is there a point to this communication, or did you just wish to determine whether you could make my processor ache from five parsecs away?”

Bumblebee laughed, “Lighten up, Zippy. I’ve got good news.”

“Oh?”

“He made it! Old Boss Bot managed to get himself appointed Magnus!”

Blurr started, “That is good news.”

“You’re shocked? Pit, he was so popular I was surprised they didn’t swap him into the position earlier. He’s going to pass his first decree next cycle.” 

“A new decree?”

Bumblebee nodded, “Repealing the Decepticon Registration Act. Wouldn’t be surprised if Alpha Trion blows a gasket when it comes out.”

He was frozen, his spark flaring and pulsing, “Repealing it?”

But Bumblebee was still talking, “Course after this long, there’s not really much meaning in it. No Decepticons _on_ Cybertron to register. But Boss Bot’s looking to demonstrate some good will before he sends out contacts to try and open up negotiations.”

“Who is there possibly left to negotiate with?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself. Hard to get ‘Cons to fall in line without somebody to boss ‘em about. But the Boss is confident he can get them to at least assemble. Would be easier if they had a spokesbot of some kind, our politics are so slagging different, but he said he’ll take what he can get.”

“I see.”

“Hey,” he focused back on Bumblebee and found the other mech watching him with concern. “What do you think of this, really?”

“My personal feelings towards the situation are irrelevant.”

“Scrap, Blurr, you more than anybody have a right to have an opinion on this.”

“I think…that it would be foolish to allow the Decepticons unlimited access to our resources and I fear that it may be impossible to heal the breach between us. However, I do believe that it is time that we try to move beyond the past.”

Bumblebee nodded, expression serious, “Boss Bot is an idealist, sure, but he’s not stupid. He’ll do his best to keep everyone safe.”

“That is…good to know.”

Bumblebee smiled, “Enjoy the rest of your vacation, Zippy. There’ll be more than enough to keep you busy when you get back.”

The screen winked out as the link disconnected. Blurr leaned back in the console seat and stared up at the ceiling.

He had much think over.

 

Another cycle, nothing but sun, sand and the spark-echo of Blurr in his chassis.

It had been too long since he’d last merged; he’d forgotten the way it lingered. The curious tug that told him a part of himself was missing. The strange awareness of another’s presence, in a way which felt as if it should be invasive, yet wasn’t.

Soft shushing of the sand; he didn’t even need to look up.

“We need to speak.”

He shifted from his alt mode and turned to look at the other bot.

“What do you wish to discuss?”

Blurr reflected for a moment and spoke, “Things are changing on Cybertron.”

“Oh?”

“This, whatever this is, has grown larger than the two of us.”

“Optimus has been appointed Magnus.”

Blurr nodded, “More than that. He is in the process of repealing the Decepticon Registration Act, perhaps as we speak.”

A frisson of shock, impossible to think of a world without faction-specific laws “Why?”

“A sign of goodwill, he is seeking to open up negotiations.”

“Impossible, the remainder of the Decepticons are broken into small splinter groups. They will not negotiate as a whole.”

“That is my concern as well. They need a leader, one with the strength to get them to fall in line, and the knowledge to navigate both Autobot and Decepticon politics.”

He knew then what the other bot had in mind, “You cannot be serious.”

“You spent stellar cycles among us, integrated into the fabric of our government; do you deny it? Or are you concerned you lack the strength to win a fight for dominance?”

He sighed, “Practically I must admit I am not as powerful as Megatron. I don’t doubt I could get Soundwave and Bliztwing to throw their lots in with mine, neither of them have much ambition towards leadership. Even the Constructicons might be persuaded. My main concern would be Lugnut.”

“He is still imprisoned, last I heard.”

“But his consort and her team are running free. Strika is not one to be trifled with.”

“Would a few extra soldiers make a difference?”

“Who else has avoided capture?”

“I’m not sure where they have gotten off too, but a few of Starscream’s clones are still around.”

“The very _last_ thing I need when trying to establish leadership is a Starscream. Let alone more than one.”

“I suspect some of them could be persuaded, or beaten into submission. One is even more cowardly than their clonal parent was.”

“Hard to believe, but yes, a few more soldiers would increase my chances.”

“You also have a bartering chip. The sooner negotiations open up, the sooner Lugnut’s release can be bargained for. It might be enough to get Strika to fall in line.”

“True. How long until Optimus begins to transmit invitations?”

“A minimum of twenty solar cycles, possibly more if the Council gives him trouble.”

A narrow window, but it would have to be enough, “I will need a ship.”

“You have one.”

“Yours? But if you stray from your mission path, won’t your superiors get suspicious?”

“According to the official records, I am currently on vacation. I doubt they will care.”

“Very well, can we leave tomorrow, at first light? I need to put some matters in order.”

“That’s acceptable, I will refuel the ship tonight.”

The other bot started to step away from him, but he found himself reaching out, “Blurr.”

A twitch, not quite a flinch as the mech avoided his grasp, “I need to get moving. It will take most of the night to prep the ship.”

“I understand.”

And then Blurr was gone, a mere flicker in the distance.

He pushed aside the ache in his spark and began to scale the rocks. Found the communication array and activated it. He hesitated for a moment, but leaned forward and spoke.

“Soundwave.”

Silence, and then “Acknowledged.”

“We have much to discuss.”

 

He met Blurr by his ship on the fringes of the city. The craft was a small starhopper, but it appeared large enough to accommodate the two of them. His entire stay’s worth of credits was tucked away in subspace. They boarded the ship, the hatch hissing shut behind them and stood in the main control room, regarding each other.

“The disguise is a tad pointless with just the two of us, don’t you think?”

He shifted back to his root form, but left his plating free of the Decepticon purple “Habit.”

“I’m sure. Were you successful in contacting your comrades?”

He didn’t ask how Blurr knew what he’d been up to “Soundwave and Bliztwing are willing to follow me. Soundwave has provided information on the location of the Constructicons and three of Starscream’s clones.”

Blurr turned away, “Good. The cabins are small, but you should be able to about fit. There is energon if you require it.”

“Thank you.”

The other bot slid into the command chair and turned his attention to the console, “Don’t mention it.”

 

Ten solar cycles in space.

They’d tracked down the Constructicons with relative ease and the somewhat dim-sparked mechs had seemed amenable to joining his faction. Especially after he explained that a return to Cybertron meant access to building projects and energon.

Starscream’s clones proved a bit trickier. The cowardly purple creature that called itself Skywarp had fallen in line as soon as he asked and the sycophantic Sunstorm had leaped at him as soon as he’d said the word “leader”. But the arrogant bot that went by the designation Thundercracker had required a sound thrashing before he agreed to serve under him.

Now they were out there, scattered among the stars, awaiting his command and Optimus’ invitation.

Ten cycles.

He ached to touch Blurr.

The imprint from the merge had faded, but his spark still reached out, tried to feel. He kept his energy field locked in tight.

He was laid out flat on the floor of the main room, tucked to the side in an effort to keep out of the other bot’s way. The cabins were too small to permit him to stretch out fully, and he enjoyed the brief respite.

He must have drifted into recharge at some point, lulled by the hum of the ship’s engines, because when he came online the lights had shifted into their power-saving cycle. Blurr was seated next to him, head propped on his knees.

“We will need to find you a ship soon.”

The ‘We will need to part ways soon’ went unspoken; it would take far too much explanation for them to return together, “Of course. I believe I am still in possession of enough credits to procure one.”

“Good.”

Silence.

“We are near a planet where you should be able to purchase one. We’ll reach it in the next solar cycle or two.”

“I see.”

Hesitant, Blurr lifted a hand and laid it palm down on his chassis.

He shuddered and his energy field spiked.

“Please.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them said it, but next moment Blurr was on top of him, his own field flaring and sinking into his. 

He arched up, chestplates opening and drew them together. The merging was swift, but strangely gentle, energy washing between them, and Blurr opened, let him see. 

Wariness, the remnants of sorrow, but also something else.

Forgetfulness was too much to ask, to expect, but the beginnings of forgiveness…they were here.

 

They lay on the floor of the ship for megacycles after overload, feeling out the shape of each other’s frames, fields just touching.

“Bond with me,” it was an utterly foolish impulse, but he found it impossible to resist.

Blurr considered the idea, “I doubt that Cybertron is ready to accept a cross-faction bonding.”

He was right of course, but his spark still contracted under the rejection.

A hand crept up and caressed the sensor-mesh of his face, circled around his optic, soothing.

“But they will be.”


End file.
